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“You have no idea. A little tip for you—buy a small ruler at the PX and keep it hidden from the TAC officers. Also get a black magic marker to cover any black threads on your uniforms. Basic tra
ining taught us discipline. Preflight is going to teach us attention to detail. When you come back, give me a holler and I’ll go to chow with you,” Bob offered.
As I was leaving the building, Johnson was coming down the stairs.
“Dan, you goin’ to the PX?”
“Yeah, you?”
“I’ll walk over witch’u if you don’t walk too fast.” Johnson’s Southern accent was coming through loud and clear.
“What’s the matter?” I noticed his limping walk. “What’d you do?”
“Dee low-quarter shoes. I ain’t never worn dees before, and dey’re killing my feet.”
“What, you’ve never worn low-quarters before!”
“Nah. Growing up, we was too poor for anything but sneakers, and in basic we wore boots, but not dese. Dey hurt.”
Johnson was right—we never had worn our issued low-quarters in basic training, only boots. Low-quarter shoes were made in the federal prison system, and not of the most supple leather.
“When you get back from chow, go up to the shower wearing your shoes. Soak those shoes good in hot water and keep them on until you go to bed tonight. That will break them in quick. You may get your ass ripped tomorrow for wet shoes, but I suspect we’re going to get our asses ripped for everything tomorrow, so the TACs may not even notice the shoes are damp.”
When we returned from the PX, Johnson and I walked over to the mess hall with Bob. In basic training, “Eat fast and haul ass” had been the motto. Here was different. We entered the mess hall without having to do pushups or overhead bars. No one was screaming as we moved along the cafeteria line with a tray and real dishes. Tables were arranged to seat four people. We knew when we entered how much time we had for the meal. It was always long enough to eat, drink a second cup of coffee and have a smoke if you were so inclined. I was a bit gun-shy, expecting the TAC officers to burst in and start screaming at any minute. When they didn’t, I started to relax.
I became more relaxed when Bob said, “Hey, no need to shovel food in. Remember the table manners your parents taught you. The TACs will be around after tomorrow, and if you’re eating like an animal, they’ll put your tray on the floor and have you get down and eat with no utensils. Eat like your mom was sitting here, which means no foul language.” I suddenly remembered my table manners and started acting appropriately.
Cadet Brady chaired the 1800 briefing. “Welcome to Preflight. I’m a holdover from a previous class, so me and the other cadets were directed to meet you and get you settled in. After tomorrow morning, we’re just like you and in this with you. First formation will be at zero five thirty, and it will be frightening. Our TAC officers are warrant officers who finished their tours flying in Vietnam. Now they’re babysitting us instead of being instructor pilots, and they’re not happy about it. You can expect to get your ass smoked in the morning. Nothing you do will make them happy, so be prepared for it. This is my second time going through this, and I’ll try to laugh my way through tomorrow morning, ’cause it’s the only thing to do,” he explained.
Bob picked up the briefing. “Preflight is four weeks long. You will be in classrooms all day, every day, learning how to behave as an officer. There will be classes on etiquette and manners. You will receive classes on the Uniform Code of Military Justice, UCMJ, and just how fast you can be kicked out of this program.” The rest of the briefing went into detail on how to prepare our footlockers and wall lockers for inspections. Inspections were conducted every day, whenever the TAC officer felt like doing it, whether we were in the barracks or in class.
It was agreed that everyone would start waking up at 0430 hours. That would give us an hour to clean up and have our areas prepared for inspection after we spent the previous night setting everything up as instructed. At 0530 hours, all forty cadets were stacked one behind the other and ready to burst onto the company street. When the whistle blew, cadets poured out of the barracks as if they were on fire. And we did it again, and again, and again, interspersed with pushups as we just could not vacate the barracks fast enough.
While we were outside getting smoked doing pushups, some of the TAC officers were in the barracks tossing everything out of our wall lockers and footlockers. If they noticed Johnson’s shoes, they said nothing about them being wet. Of course, the barracks weren’t clean enough for the TAC officers, so mops, brooms, pails and garbage cans were flying around squad bays as well. Obviously, no one made their bed that morning, because mattresses were upside down and bedding pulled apart.
After two weeks, the barracks were in a clean enough condition to satisfy the TAC officers. The level of cleanliness was achieved when a cadet wore a pair of white gloves while conducting a pre-inspection before the TAC’s inspection. Satisfied that attention to detail was being paid to the large items like the barracks, the TAC officers turned their attention to small things, such as the cleanliness of the inside of our brass belt buckles or the inside of our razors or our toothbrushes. “This is filthy, Cadet. It is only good for cleaning the latrine. Now get in there and clean those toilets. Take your damn toothbrush.”
More than one of us was accused of growing penicillin in our belt buckles. A loose thread on a shirt would obtain an ass chewing for the offender. Faded black thread required a black magic marker touch-up in order to pass inspection. Attention to detail was the name of the game. We would learn on the flight line why it was so important.
We received more shots, as well as our flight gear. Our flight gear consisted of two one-piece flight suits, a pair of leather gloves and a flight helmet with carrying bag. The flight suits would not be going to Vietnam with us. A lot of bravado was displayed in the barracks as cadets modeled before the camera in their flight gear for pictures to be sent home. For many, that would be the extent of their aviation experience. Counseling by our TAC officer also began with each of us being called into his office. When it was my turn, I knocked on the door.
“Get in here, Cadet!” shouted the TAC officer, Chief Warrant Officer 2 Barbie. Chief Warrant Officer Barbie was a tall, skinny man with an unhandsome pockmarked face. However, he did have a knockout wife that frequently came to the barracks to pick him up in a new Corvette Stingray. We couldn’t help but notice her.
Approaching his desk, I came to attention and rendered the proper salute. “Sir, Cadet Cory reporting as ordered.” He returned my salute and told me to stand at ease, which really meant stand at parade rest. He was looking at my chart and had not looked at me.
“Cadet Cory, you’re older than most cadets we see here. You have almost three years of college.”
“Yes, sir,” My father had taught me that statements of fact got a “yes, sir” or “no, sir” response and nothing more.
“Didn’t you like college? Or were you just too stupid to finish? Are you a quitter, Cadet Cory?” he asked, leaning forward across his desk, staring at me with his beady black eyes.
“No, sir!”
“Are you going to waste the Army’s money, and my time, quitting before you even start?”
“No, sir!” This line of questioning was becoming annoying.
“I suppose you’re going to take that nice pay raise and buy yourself one of those new Corvettes, aren’t you?” he needled me.
